


woken up like an animal

by troiing



Category: Sanctuary (TV), The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F, Monster Hunters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25169719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troiing/pseuds/troiing
Summary: In which Geralt and Tissaia help an incredibly uncooperative Yennefer navigate the early days of her lycanthropy.Sanctuary and its characters aren't mentioned, and the canon is changed, but let's call a spade a spade here: it's a Sanctuary AU as much as it is a werewolf AU.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Tissaia de Vries, Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 113
Kudos: 116





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the "5+" AU headcanons posted on Tumblr. Another fic i said i wouldn't write. You see how this is becoming dangerous.
> 
> Apparently nobody else is writing about Tissaia and Geralt being friends so you get to deal with them being best buds here.
> 
> Title from "Human" by Daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing graphic to warn for here, but there's plenty of medical stuff going on in this chapter.

Yennefer wakes to movement. To the beeping and whirring of machines. To the friction of a tube pulled tight behind her ear. To a woman’s voice.

“Thank you, David. We’ll take her from here.”

“Of course, Ms. DeVries.”

A blurry figure removes the nasal cannula, the blood pressure cuff. A metallic sound as the bed’s wheels unlock.

The hallway is a blur of white and light.

She must be dying.

* * *

“How bad?”

Tissaia has been working with Geralt for too long to be surprised by the pointed question he asks in lieu of any proper greeting. She shakes her head as he locks the ramp in place, freeing the gurney from its position in the van.

“I don’t know how they managed to bring her in alive, honestly.” She allows Geralt to give her a hand out of the van, and to take control of the gurney as they move out of the garage and through the halls leading to the infirmaries. After several grueling hours in a surgical ward, she doesn’t have much energy to spare. “Did you get those units of O-negative?”

He grunts an affirmative. “Think she’ll need them?”

“God, I hope not. I’d rather not be moving her at this stage at all, but I think she’s caused enough excitement. To be safe, make sure Basil keeps himself available.”

Another grunt, this one of assent.

A few minutes later, Tissaia’s shifting their newest patient from the gurney to the bed with Geralt’s help and thanking the stars above for the nurses who usually perform such tasks, because the girl isn’t _heavy_ by any means, but Tissaia doesn’t spend much time in the theatre anymore and she’s _exhausted_.

“Should be some curry in the kitchen,” Geralt says, fitting a blood pressure cuff over Yennefer’s arm and attaching the pulse oximeter to her finger while Tissaia checks the IV sites. She adjusts the oxygen flow to the nasal cannula settled over the girl’s face when she sees the flashing oximetry reading.

Tissaia has never taken well to dismissals, or to being mothered, but Geralt’s taciturn invitation is one she accepts with a weary half-smile today. She does not need to ask him to stay here while she’s gone, and he does not promise to do so. On paper, Geralt’s her best field agent, but in practice, he’s much more than that.

“Call if you need me,” she says, and it brooks no argument.

“Mm.”

* * *

Yennefer is a thorn in Tissaia’s side from the moment she’s cognizant enough to start asking questions.

For one, _asking questions_ gives her, perhaps, too much credit. She makes more demands than anything—demands to know where she is, who Tissaia is, _what the fuck attacked her_ , and so on. Tissaia grants her marginally more leeway than she would under different circumstances, but only because Yennefer spent several days hovering very close to death’s door and what’s to come is no prettier. She has little patience for such explosive tempers, and it is, frankly, to Yennefer’s benefit that she is too weak to maintain her tantrums for long. Tissaia feeds Yennefer information piece-meal as she is ready to receive it. She is in a sanctuary, of sorts; Tissaia is one of the surgeons responsible for ensuring that Yennefer survived that first day after her attack; the beast that attacked her was a werewolf; _yes_ , despite that evidence of them has long been hidden from public eye, such creatures are real. Yes, the creature that nearly took her left arm off before she found relative safety in her car has changed her, permanently.

When she’s finally spent her anger, there’s crying, and then more anger, and then a half-eaten bowl of soup flung across the room, leaving a trail of broth across the bedding and the ringing of plastic against concrete in the air. There is denial, and sleep, and more anger, worse than before, and different, though Tissaia cannot place why. Yennefer’s emotions are loud, chaotic, but it’s all Tissaia can do to keep her own locked down; she doesn’t have it within herself to be analysing Yennefer’s inner turmoil.

All the rest of it, Tissaia can suffer on account of her traumas, but it’s the eventual sass that makes her want to wring the girl’s neck. She doesn’t _listen_ , and each day that ticks by is one less she has to prepare herself for what is to come. And yet, she seems vehemently opposed to accepting any of what Tissaia (or anyone else, for that matter) says about her predicament as fact.

The _fact_ is that in less than three weeks, Yennefer will become an uncontrollable and deadly beast—a werewolf, untamed and full of rage a hundred times worse than anything she feels now—whether she is ready for it or not.

Naturally, there is more anger. She is free of the machines now, though still in the infirmary for ease of monitoring her condition, and she is foolish enough to try to stand: to launch herself abruptly toward the door with a spirit that her body cannot match. Her hands go out, scrabbling at Tissaia’s shoulders, and Tissaia catches her up as best she can, underneath her right arm and by the left hip, suppressing her instincts to grab the first part of Yennefer’s body she can and trying her best to, instead, hold her where it will hurt least. There isn’t much hope for it, of course: Yennefer is more or less covered in injuries, from the punctures and scrapes around her left shoulder and breast, to the long, broad scratches raking down her back and the backs of her legs and across her abdomen, to the mostly-healed cuts from the glass that shattered when her car rolled down into the ditch she’d been found in. She cries out as her body collides with Tissaia’s, and she’s four inches taller than Tissaia and dead weight in her arms, and this time Tissaia listens to her instincts, lowering the both of them to the floor as carefully as possible.

It still hurts when her knees hit the ground, and judging by the second outcry, Yennefer doesn’t fare much better. Tissaia has no sympathy for that particular plight; it’s _her_ fault, after all, she who brought it upon herself by launching herself out of the safety of her bed. 

And yet, when she begins to sob, Tissaia’s arms go around her, fingers curling into her hair, guiding Yennefer’s head beneath her chin as she shushes her, gingerly stroking the back of her arm. It is not comfortable: her knees ache, Yennefer’s tears and breath are hot on her neck, and her nails dig painfully into Tissaia’s side; yet still, Tissaia cradles Yennefer’s quaking body against her own both as gently and as securely as possible.

“Hush, girl. You’re safe,” she finds herself murmuring, stroking at dark hair that’s in desperate need of a wash. “You’re safe here.”

There’s a frustrated noise in between the sobs, and Yennefer’s hands fist against her body, pressing half-heartedly away; Tissaia holds her close. “How can you say that?” she demands through her tears, voice broken and quavering with the movement of her body. “You’re too fucking late to protect me. You couldn’t protect me from that _thing_ in the first place!” The little fight she has drains her quickly, and the pressure of her fists against Tissaia’s ribs gives way as she collapses again, a shuddering mass of spent rage and grief. “What makes you think you can do anything for me now?” she demands, sinking into Tissaia’s body seemingly in spite of herself.

Tissaia breathes deeply. Sighs it out again. Tilts her head and offers Yennefer a few words that are equal parts encouragement and warning. “Yennefer, listen to me: I am going to take care of you, because I’m the closest thing to an expert you will find. Do you understand?”

She lets Yennefer’s trembling silence be her answer.

* * *

While Yennefer’s physical condition improves over the next few weeks, her mood does not. Which is _understandable_ , certainly, but it’s becoming rather _old_ , and Tissaia finds herself almost relieved that it’s the night of the full moon. It will be dangerous, yes—first transformations are always the worst—but werewolf bites and scratches are notoriously difficult to heal, and the marks covering most of Yennefer’s body have been incredibly troubling from a medical perspective—even from _this_ xenobiological perspective. The transformation back into human form, however, comes with incredible regenerative capabilities; the morning transformation should help put Yennefer’s healing back on track. From there, they can go about their business educating Yennefer on her condition with more ease—perhaps even with a more cooperative patient. And after that? Well. Maybe the girl can even go _home_.

Tissaia would really very much like to have Yennefer out of her hair for a few days, and Yennefer has made it abundantly clear that she feels the same.

Yennefer is nervous standing in her gown in the middle of the stark cell. It seems overly large and empty now, just the two of them standing in it; it will seem much smaller with a werewolf inside. A shadow of Yennefer’s unease flutters down Tissaia’s spine as she meticulously arranges the supplies on the stainless steel tray balanced on the waist-high cart beside her.

“What is that?” Yennefer asks—doesn’t demand, but asks—and Tissaia arches a brow up at her.

“A sedative.”

Yennefer bounces a couple of times on her toes; they come to the conclusion that it’s a bad idea at the same time, and Tissaia reaches out instinctively, gripping her arm to steady her. After a moment, Yennefer shakes it off, holds her arm out instead and says, “So, hit me.”

Tissaia cuts her eyes sharply up to Yennefer’s face, barely suppressing the scowl that threatens to overcome her features; now is not the time. “Have you listened to a word you’ve been told about tonight, Yennefer?”

“Not really, no,” the girl says cavalierly.

Tissaia could shake her. Could just… just grab her by the shoulders and shake her. She’s infuriating, and she has little time.

“Then listen well and listen _now_ ,” she says in a low, dangerous voice that makes Yennefer blink. “You saw the thing that attacked you, yes? How big was it?”

“Uh, yeah, huge,” Yennefer says awkwardly, brown eyes fixed on Tissaia’s face.

“On average, werewolves are about my height,” Tissaia replies pointedly, chin tilted very slightly upward, expression challenging. “As you can imagine, a twenty-five stone canine requires a great deal more sedative than you do. As you become _that_ , every bone and muscle and tendon in your body will rearrange itself. You clearly are not interested in details, so I will spare you them. What you must know is that, if dosed correctly, this sedative will carry you through the transformation and not much further; but that if I give it to you too soon, it _will_ stop your heart.”

Yennefer is silent for a moment, bewildered; and then, in a strangled voice, she asks: “I’m _sorry_?”

“Have you so thoroughly blocked out information I have given you no less than three times now?” Tissaia asks, incensed. 

“Yeah, sorry, I was a little preoccupied!”

“You should have been occupied with _this_!” Tissaia hisses.

“You’re running out of time in there.”

Yennefer jumps at the crackling of Geralt’s voice over the intercom, and Tissaia uses the moment to better leash her own emotions, breathing deeply.

“Thank you, Geralt,” she says, only taking her eyes away from Yennefer to glance down at the timepiece on the corner of the tray. Three minutes.

Yennefer’s arms are crossed defensively over her body, her face contorted into a slightly pained expression, when Tissaia looks back up at her again.

“You are going to suffer,” Tissaia says bluntly. “The transformation will be incredibly painful. But you won’t remember most of it come morning. It is entirely possible that this dose is wrong; I cannot know exactly what your transformation will look like. I _can_ promise you that I have erred on the side of caution. I can also promise you that I will not force you to accept the treatment. It is your decision, but you should know that your disregard for your own condition over the past weeks means you have one minute to decide.”

“A whole minute, yeah?”

Tissaia glances down at the watch, and up again at Yennefer. Steels her expression into a pointed look. “Every decision we make in this life has consequences, Yennefer.”

In the silence that follows that declaration, she prepares a swab, extending her hand for Yennefer’s arm. “Prepping the skin won’t hurt you if you decide not to go through with it; give me your arm.”

Yennefer hesitates for just a moment before lifting her arm up for Tissaia’s examination. She takes it deftly, moving into Yennefer’s space slightly and turning it in the light to examine the veins. She chooses her target; swabs the area clean. Thirty seconds.

“I told you I would protect you, Yennefer,” Tissaia says, tilting her chin to look up into Yennefer’s face again as her fingers hold the swab in place. “I _will_ do everything in my power to protect you.”

Yennefer’s lips press together in a thin line, and there’s a deep and angry sort of fear in her eyes that makes Tissaia’s heart race when she nods shakily in understanding, in acceptance.

“Am I doing this?”

Yennefer nods again; her voice comes out as a croaked “ _Yes_.”

The pronouncement spurs Tissaia to rapid action. “On the ground, then,” she orders with a tilt of her head, holding Yennefer’s arm.

Yennefer obeys, keeping her arm within Tissaia’s hold as Tissaia crouches with her, syringe in hand, giving the place on her arm one final swipe before discarding the swab on the tray beside her head and uncapping the syringe. An alarm sounds quietly nearby; Yennefer gives a single, full-body shiver. The needle strikes the vein, and Tissaia pushes the sedative as quickly as she safely can, eyes flickering up to Yennefer’s face as, somewhere to the east-southeast, the moon begins its ascent over the horizon.

Geralt is at her side when she withdraws the needle, taking control of the cart just as Tissaia drops the spent syringe into the appropriate container. She doesn’t take her time backing away, but she does spare a momentary glance at the girl on the floor, eyes and body drooping in counterpoint to the stiff, unconscious movements of her body as the rising of the moon takes control. 

From a scientific perspective, it’s fascinating; from a human perspective, horrifying. Yennefer has been a thorn in Tissaia’s side since she awakened, but to see her in that moment, stripped of all agency, two unstoppable forces vying for control over her body, makes her heart seize.

It’s all she can do to turn and walk out of the room, sealing the cell door behind her.

Geralt is waiting for her with a neutral but intent expression on his face, and she busies herself momentarily by sealing up the sharps container and stripping off her gloves before following him to the observation room across the corridor. Yennefer’s cell itself is almost entirely concrete; the narrow wall connected to the corridor is broad steel bars, but there is little enough space between them to make viewing difficult; better to rely on the tiny cameras bedded safely in the walls and ceiling throughout the room.

By the time she settles herself into the chair beside Geralt, six screens showing different views of the cell, a rigour has completely taken over Yennefer’s body.

“We haven’t seen many early transformations,” she says, as much for herself as for Geralt, pointing at the clearest view of Yennefer’s body with a pen, “but there is sufficient evidence to suggest that the body is incredibly resistant to the change for the first few months.”

Geralt grunts acknowledgement. Within a few breaths, the transformation has taken Yennefer’s body in full force.

Tissaia opens her mind, and feels nothing. Realistically, this is either very good or very bad.

She has enough confidence to trust that it is good. In a scant few minutes, she’s proven right in the most unpleasant of manners.

The sedative does not seem to wear off gradually for the wolf. Instead, in one moment the transformation is completing itself, muscles and bones rippling and settling beneath the thick fur, and in the next the rage of the beast strikes her so hard she cries out, hand flying out to grasp Geralt’s shoulder as she reflexively throws up every mental barrier she possesses. The effort leaves her panting and disorientated, tears sparking unbidden in her eyes at the emotional onslaught.

She breathes deeply, and as she reorients herself with her surroundings and her own frame of mind, she realises that Geralt has moved his chair, so that he’s half-facing her, one hand resting on the arm of her own seat, the other reaching across her lap to grip her knee in an uncharacteristically intimate gesture. She searches his face, and although Tissaia regards herself as relatively unshakeable and is more than accustomed to Geralt’s behavior, the quiet intensity and concern in his gaze unsettles her again, makes her feel exposed.

She stares back at him for a long moment. He doesn’t ask if she’s alright, doesn’t make any inquiries at all—just releases her and leans back and says, “I’ll take first watch.”

With anyone else, his tone and demeanour would brook no argument, but Tissaia is not _anyone else_ ; he may intimidate others without trying, but he’s never managed to daunt Tissaia, nor has he ever tried. She frowns and shakes her head, glancing at the monitors. Yennefer, in her wolf form, is well and truly recovered from the sedative now, and is pacing the room with hackles raised. “No. If we’re to learn anything from this—”

“It’s nothing you can’t review on video later,” Geralt interrupts.

Tissaia scowls at him for a moment, irritated at the interruption. “You know that’s not true.”

“Everything you feel from that monster is going to be the same. Nothing but rage. It is true.”

She does not respond. The silence is deafening.

“When were you last this close to an unmedicated werewolf?” Geralt asks pointedly from beside her.

Tissaia snorts caustically, shaking her head a bit. “You know the answer to that. We were hunting together.”

“Yeah. Two years ago?” Tissaia is silent in reply; Geralt hums low under his breath, a thoughtful, guttural sound that tells Tissaia he is considering his next words carefully. “You know she's only going to get angrier when she can't escape that cell,” he finally observes. “So maybe as an empath you should take this in small doses.”

“I'll be fine.”

“Tissaia…”

She is tired. She has work to do. She fixes her eyes on the screen with the best angle on Yennefer at the present moment and snaps: “You're dismissed, Geralt.”

Geralt makes a frustrated noise, but his chair rolls backward a bit before he stands. And, in a moment of dark humour, he dips a shallow bow, hands poised in elegant mockery. “As her majesty wishes,” he says, and although his tone is the same as ever, Tissaia can sense the scathing reproach behind it.

She sighs. It is not like Tissaia to relent in anything, but Geralt is different. They’ve been working together too long.

“I… _appreciate_ what you're trying to do,” she says haltingly, glancing up at him as he stands upright again, his brows raised in question.

“Yeah,” he says, and Tissaia knows it marks the end of the discussion. They have both given all they have to give; ceded as much as they are able. After a moment, she sees him glance at the clock in her peripheral vision. “It's 8:45,” he observes. “Moon sets at 5:27.”

She nods—a small, swift movement. Winces slightly as Yennefer begins clawing fruitlessly at the concrete of her cell. “Come back at 1. I'll rest then.”

* * *

Geralt is right, of course; she’d known he was, but certain things must be seen and tasted and felt for the sake of argument, or principle, or science. She learns nothing in those four hours, save that the mindless rage of the beast in the nearby cell is unrelenting; when she retires to her room there’s a distant echo of that rage ringing through her. 

She steps into the shower, water pressure turned up, and lets the water fall on her head, lets it plaster her hair to the sides of her face, to her ears, until the water sounds like distant drumbeats reverberating in her ears. She breathes. She doesn’t meditate much anymore, has fostered enough control that she rarely feels the need to, but she lets her mind drift as the water cools from near-scalding to lukewarm.

By the time she steps out of the shower, hair wrung free of excess water and skin patted dry, she feels thoroughly grounded in herself again.

She manages all of an hour of sleep, eventually. After dressing for the day, she finds herself down in the kitchens; she’s not in the mood for an extended period of Geralt’s judgmental silence. Instead, half an hour before the moon is due to set, she covers the observation room tables with dishes laden with drop scones, clotted cream and the orange marmalade Geralt likes, and a jar of honey.

Geralt barely spares her a glance; silently takes a plate and fills it with food instead. Tissaia starts the small electric kettle in the corner and settles in beside him, satisfied, and eats without much appetite. When the kettle whistles, she changes Geralt’s old cup of tea out for a new one and steeps a bag of black tea for herself, eyeing the monitors thoughtfully.

“Did she ever settle at all?”

“Not really,” Geralt replies, finishing a scone and starting in on another unceremoniously. “Did you?”

“Hm. I slept.”

She doesn’t feel the need to specify for how long, and Geralt does not ask. Instead, they finish their breakfast in silence, Tissaia carefully keeping to her own mind.

As the clock indicates that the moon has begun to set outside, something seizes the wolf in the same way it seized Yennefer the night before. A sudden, snarling whine sounds over the monitors, and Tissaia winces, but opens her mind up, reaching for the other room. For all the advances they have made in the study and care of such accelerated protean lifeforms, there remains no safe and effective way to treat the pain that comes with transitioning from wolf to human form. And so, there is suffering. Of course there is.

“Voice record, Geralt.”

“Fuck, now?” he asks, but when her eyes flick over to him he is already starting a recording. He says no more, so she wets her lips and begins dictating.

The transformation takes only minutes, and she has opened only a sliver of her consciousness to it, but by the time it’s over she is exhausted again. Still, she stands, and Geralt watches impassively as she makes her way back out to the cart parked near Yennefer’s cell, punches the unlock code on the door, and enters.

* * *

Although accelerated healing is an accepted part of the transformation back to human form, the full moon sets her recovery back. The bites and scratches from the werewolf that attacked her are slightly better, but she continues to require high doses of antibiotics to treat them. Scans and tests show no internal injuries, but Yennefer complains of abdominal and chest pains of a scale similar to that which immediately followed her surgery. Her hands and feet, wrists and ankles, are covered in minor wounds inflicted by the wolf’s agitated chewing.

Within a few days, she is well enough to return to her usual complaining. Another week, and she is actually listening with at least some interest while another lycanthrope—Noah, who is all of fifty years old but looks a decade and a half older, easily—educates her more deeply on the intricacies of her condition and what to expect in the future.

And a few days after that, Tissaia can see no reason to keep her locked away.

Still, she is as unbridled as the wolf inside of her, volatile in every way, resentful of her condition and of the institution that saved her life. When she leaves, it’s with a bottle full of antibiotics, some relatively mild pain pills, and a middle finger flung up toward the security camera over the front door.

“You really think she’s gonna come back for the full moon?” Geralt asks doubtfully, effortlessly echoing Tissaia’s own concerns, and Noahs, and, well, everyone else who has interacted with Yennefer during her six week stay, really.

Tissaia turns her face to his, chin tilted upward to meet his eye. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, some unreadable emotion in her eyes. “This isn’t a prison, Geralt. I can’t lock her up on suspicion of what she might do in future.”

Geralt does not reply.

It’s three moon cycles before they see her again.


	2. Chapter 2

Word comes from one of their contacts stationed in the country that there's been a sighting. Whether it is Yennefer or some other werewolf is unclear, but either way, it is their domain; and so, Tissaia and Geralt and a handful of other operatives gather their gear and they go. 

The roads are dark, quiet. Tissaia rubs her forehead wearily, watches the shadowy landscape through the passenger window. Aside from the mental checklists ticked off verbally at the beginning of the ride, the interior of the van is silent for most of the journey.

Twenty minutes from their rendezvous, Geralt asks: “If it's her, what are you gonna do?”

What he means is, _if she won't stay willingly, what will you do with her?_

And the obvious answer, of course, is _what she must_.

This is all understood, as is the underlying invitation to talk things through, and Tissaia takes the bait without coaxing, leaning back against the headrest and shaking her head slightly. “I've never had to imprison anyone in my house before.”

Geralt grunts a sympathetic acknowledgement. “Think you'll have to?” He may be her right hand, but it is not a question of _we._ Tissaia is head of house; he makes it a point to stay out of organisational politics, always has, just supports her decisions in whatever ways are deemed necessary. 

Still, sometimes Tissaia would like a break from the difficult decisions that come with the role.

“What do you make of her?” she asks, because Yennefer has been mentioned only in passing updates void of useful information over the past ten weeks. Because life and business in the network must always continue as usual.

Geralt shrugs. “You're the empath.”

Tissaia cuts her eyes at him, but she does not say that she avoids reading people unless it's absolutely necessary; doesn't say that she views her gift as a gross violation of privacy under most circumstances. Doesn't have to say any of this, because he meets her eyes for a split second before giving the road his full attention again and bobbing his head slightly.

“Yeah,” he says, “I know.”

For a span, the silence stretches between them again. It's a brand of silence that lets Tissaia know Geralt is considering his next words; she stares ahead and waits him out, letting him piece his thoughts together.

“She's trouble,” he says at last. “Angry. Impulsive. Arrogant. And she resents us.”

“For not protecting her from this. Wouldn't you?”

“Hm.”

Tissaia sighs, watching the road ahead. “She is proud. And _smart,_ and difficult,” she says at last, weighing her own words just as carefully. “But I think above all else, she's scared. We owe it to her to give her a second chance,” she finishes decisively.

For a brief span, Geralt drives in silence, absorbing this. 

“And the people she's hurt?” he asks at last, any emotions he might feel about the situation carefully masked from his voice. 

Tissaia feels no desire to dig in, no compulsion to know what it is he feels about this. Just takes a breath as they turn off onto a dark lane. “Let me worry about that,” she says. Because it's her job to make difficult decisions. To have difficult conversations. To do what others can't or won't.

* * *

They spend the better part of the night following her trail; when they finally find her, morning twilight is gathering over the horizon. They have long since shouldered the capture guns carried through the night, and Geralt and Tissaia are alone on the moor, following a beaten path of bloodstained heather.

They find the deer first—a Scottish red buck, judging by its size and the antlers; Tissaia does not look long enough to determine if there are markings. The carcass is fresh, blood still wet. Their presence does not disturb the crows that have already come to scavenge at the entrails.

They keep moving.

Tissaia does not know they have found her until they are standing directly over the hollow in which she lies—scarred, bloodstained, curled tightly in on herself. Sleeping fitfully, arms bent up to shelter her head. Tissaia stands back, radios the rest of their team and then, as a half-dozen operatives begin to sound off, mutes the radio and lowers the gun from her shoulder.

“Nice bed,” Geralt remarks drily, and Tissaia sees him beginning to strip out of his jacket, moving towards Yennefer's sleeping form.

Tissaia wrinkles her nose, puts a hand on his arm. “Your jacket’s filthy,” she says before tapping his arm lightly with the backs of her fingers. Geralt is a good man and an excellent hunter, and he pays about as much attention to his personal hygiene as you’d expect a mature, grown man to pay, but really, he ought to learn to clean his outerwear more often. Tissaia doesn't bother to say this though, just pins him with a pointed look as she holds her own gun out for him to take.

He only grumbles as he steps back again, taking the gun by the barrel as Tissaia strips of her own coat. “ _She's_ filthy.”

Ignoring him, Tissaia lowers herself to her knees, covering Yennefer’s lower half with her coat as she bends her head, fingers searching the lines of the scars on her back. They look angry and raw but there’s no streaking, and they don't feel warm. Relieved, she makes the same cursory examination of the wounds at Yennefer's front, finds the same. Her brow is cool to the touch. No fever.

To call it a miracle would be an understatement. She had had every intention of reassessing Yennefer after her next transformation, had only given her enough antibiotics for the time in between. Although the transformation comes with immensely accelerated healing, werewolf-inflicted wounds are nigh on impossible to treat; several months and Yennefer's wounds still look relatively fresh, but aside from the blood and damp earth smudging her skin, they appear clean.

It's a wonder she's alive. A wonder that there is no infection.

“Yennefer.” Tissaia adjusts the coat, covering Yennefer's shoulders with it and shaking her arm gently. “Yennefer?”

She stirs. Blinks her eyes open in the breaking dawn. Looks only ahead for a long moment, gaze unfocused and bleary; Tissaia speaks her name again, and her head jerks towards Tissaia, eyes wide.

“You,” she says, or tries to say. It catches in her throat, comes out a choked whisper.

“Yes,” Tissaia replies simply, resting her hand gently on Yennefer's arm and hoping it is enough to tell her they mean her no harm. What do you say to a wayward, new werewolf? She frowns slightly, brushing a thumb against Yennefer’s arm through the coat.

Yennefer shakes her head against the heath as if she doesn't quite believe it, wetting cracked lips and making a half-whimpering, half-moaning noise of discomfort. She winces, licks her lips again. “Who did I hurt?” She sighs on the last word, working her sticky mouth with a grimace. 

The question takes Tissaia by surprise—and she prides herself in being relatively unshakable. She frowns, looking, bewildered, down at Yennefer, who furrows her brows and swallows a lump in her throat and chokes out: “ _Please._ ” 

This before, without waiting for a response, she bursts into tears.

“I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I didn't want this!” The words leave her, strangled and breathless, as she curls more tightly in on herself.

And Tissaia reaches out, smoothing her hair, laying a hand on her side. Yennefer stiffens at first—and then, in a weak, trembling movement, pushes herself up off of the soft earth and into Tissaia's lap, fingers and brow pressed hard into her thigh. Tissaia gasps, fingers curling reflexively into Yennefer's hair. She realises belatedly that a tendril of Yennefer's despair has snaked its way into her consciousness. She had forgotten the ferocity of Yennefer's emotions, closes down on her own mind with gritted teeth and meets Geralt’s eyes helplessly.

His expression is a troubled mask.

Hesitantly, Tissaia cards her fingers through Yennefer's hair. Splays a palm across her back. Shushes her. “Come with us,” she murmurs, tracing her knuckles across Yennefer's cheek, ignoring the blood, the dirt. “Come with me, and no one will be. Not again. Not you, or anyone else.”

* * *

She replays it in her head later. Yennefer's trembling hands as she stood. The buck; the modicum of calm that fled at the sight of it, the way she fell to her knees again to retch into the dirt. The quavering limbs and shaking breath of the young woman who had, theretofore, given Tissaia nothing but grief. She'd dropped off to sleep in Geralt's arms then, small and fragile and wrapped up in the coat that covered her thighs, but only just, while Tissaia carried their gear.

The coat made her seem even smaller, of course. Tissaia isn't exactly a large woman; Yennefer may be four inches taller, but she is not much larger in frame—a truth Tissaia somehow missed before, thanks to the very big, very _loud_ personality Tissaia attributes to her.

She seems impossibly small now, and Tissaia fears that if Yennefer will not stay willingly, she may not have the strength to lock her away—may have to contact some other head of house, someone who has not yet seen the difference a few moons can make, who has not felt Yennefer's grief and pain and fear in their own mind. Someone who does not know the helpless way Yennefer's fingers curled against Tissaia's shoulder as she sat perched on the back of the van, the doors flung open and a screen erected around them to save her from prying eyes and an autumn breeze as Tissaia first washed her face and took her temperature, then irrigated the deeper wounds for a better examination of the damage. Someone who does not know the weight of Yennefer's head against Tissaia's open palm as she nodded off repeatedly, blinking awake with muffled noises of discomfort under Tissaia's ministrations, the way the stubborn woman from before yielded to Tissaia's care.

And yet it feels dishonest, _cruel_ , callous and irresponsible, to even consider abandoning her to someone else's care. And for what? For having the audacity to relent for just a moment, to reveal a quiet and fragile part of herself before reverting back to her stubborn, hot-headed ways? Tissaia frowns. Sighs. Stops the train of thought because, really, if Yennefer has not yet seen that _running_ is not an option, then there is no hope for her. She must accept that Yennefer's despair and remorse are sincere. That she means to stay, to seek treatment; to give herself the respect she deserves, to educate herself on lycanthropy and what it means for her, for the people around her.

“You're going soft.”

The observation draws her out of her thoughts. She meets Geralt's eyes in the rearview for half a second before lowering her gaze again. To the head resting heavily against her shoulder in the back seat, to the girl enveloped in her arms while she sleeps, dressed in a hospital gown and Tissaia's coat. Her hair is matted with dirt and sweat and blood, but Tissaia needs a long, hot shower anyway, so she does not complain. She will scrub herself raw later; for now, there are more important things.

“You have my phone?” she asks needlessly, dismissing his line of conversation; it is not one she wants to have, especially while they are still two hours away from home. 

“Yeah.” He knows she is evading him, but, as is his custom, he does not press the subject.

“Call Rafa. Get her an appointment for tomorrow.”

“If Rafa’s not available?”

The network has access to many mental health professionals of different backgrounds and specialties. Geralt's unspoken point, of course, is that Yennefer needs therapy, and sooner rather than later. And maybe Yennefer will hate Rafa, maybe she'll need someone else to help her through this, but at present, Tissaia can think of no one else she trusts as implicitly to walk Yennefer through the past ten weeks and out to the other side.

“Tell her to make herself available.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yennefer is an arse but gets some therapy, and Tissaia is just doing her best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on canon... i've borrowed a great deal from Sanctuary with regards to the operations of the organisation here, so just a couple things that come to mind. 
> 
> Firstly, the Sanctuary Network is a secretly government-funded global operation with very deep pockets and many, many connections. (Many of those connections have nothing to do with the government. They tend to do whatever the fuck they need to without asking permission, and yeah maybe they fudge their tax returns.) The organization is dedicated to research and preserving the safety of all creatures--protecting humans from dangerous abnormals and protecting abnormals from humans. Providing shelter and networking for humanoid abnormals and conservation efforts for non-human abnormals.
> 
> Secondly, there are many more "abnormals" (the preferred name for monsters or other humans/creatures with evolutionary mutations etc) than just Yennefer, and Tissaia's "house" (it's a very old mansion lbr) has a number of permanent residents who aren't quite human, as well as a number who pop in for a night or two of sojourn. Geralt isn't a full time resident, but he does have his own room bc he spends nights fairly regularly. 
> 
> I think that's all? if any other questions arise where you don't Get what's going on behind the scenes feel free to ask. xD
> 
> Finally... we're just barely meeting the requirements for the BTHB prompt: flashbacks

Yennefer spends most of the first session with Rafa with her arms wrapped around her knees, curled into a high-backed chair. She talks, though—and frankly, even she wasn't sure she would. But Rafa asks her to talk—just to talk, about anything at all—and that somehow makes things easier.

“I like your hijab. The colour, I mean, it's. It's really nice.”

Rafa lifts her fingers to the fabric against her chest and tilts her chin down appraisingly, in the way people do when receiving a compliment on their clothing—as if verifying precisely what she'd chosen to wear that morning.

Her lips curl into a small smile. “Thank you.”

“That shade of green. It works for you.” 

It doesn't feel like a particularly auspicious start, but Rafa smiles a little broader, says _’I've been told,’_ in a tone that is open and friendly, and eventually Yennefer is speaking again—at first to appease the other woman, and then just to talk. The past few months have been hell; she's been around other people, of course, but every interaction has been strained, laced with fear and distress. Especially while she was fleeing from Tissaia, from Geralt, from their organisation, from the truth. She couldn't exactly just go home, after all. Not after that first week or so.

Rafa is charismatic, charming and open and _inviting_ , and quite without realising it Yen slips into the easiness of the other woman's companionship. She invites without pressing, smiles or laughs where appropriate, offers quiet sympathies where it isn't—mostly, Yen steers clear of anything heavy though.

In fact, by the time she realises that it's been well over an hour, she really hasn't said much at all about the past few months. She's kept those things carefully on lockdown—they are too fresh, too sore, to trust herself with the words—but Rafa doesn't seem to mind. It's not what Yennefer imagined from the meeting, but she has no experience with mental health professionals of any kind, so she isn't sure if this is typical or not.

“Shit. It's, erm. My appointment was only an hour, wasn't it?” she asks, biting her lip as she glances up at the other woman.

“Officially,” Rafa says, a shadow of a smile turning her lips. “But I was able to clear several hours for you. If you'd like to keep going?”

Yennefer genuinely considers this for a moment, but the longer she thinks on it the more she fears an expectation of talking about other things, heavier things. Fields of dead livestock and men and women who might have died at her hand.

Her stomach starts to sour.

“We can try again Thursday.”

Rafa's voice is so firm in its gentleness Yennefer finds herself nodding, reaching out absently for the small card Rafa is holding out for her. She examines it. It seems strange to be holding a normal business card, with the address and telephone number of an ostensibly normal practice led by one _Dr. Rafa Al-Dimashqi_ blazoned across it. And so, for a span, she simply continues to study the card. She turns it over; on the back, neatly-printed in blue ink, is what can only be the woman's mobile number.

“Your life has been dramatically altered,” Rafa is saying slowly, carefully, from some distant place. “You cannot go back. And things will continue to change. But I'm here if you need me, okay?” Yennefer nods mutely, glancing back up at the other woman, who looks as inviting as ever. “We'll meet again Thursday, same time. In the meantime, if you need anything, call me.”

“Yeah,” Yennefer says around the cotton wool in her throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”

She leaves, and dreams of blood.

Her second session is much the same, but Rafa gives her an assignment for their next appointment, and that she bothers to do it at all, jotting notes down like a responsible student, speaks volumes to the rapport they have somehow already managed to build. Their third meeting is harder though; her words stumble, her fingers grasp, as she reviews the thoughts and dreams that have accompanied her since seeing Rafa last. She's given more instruction, more gentle guidance.

She spends most of the fourth session sobbing uncontrollably.

When she leaves after that fourth meeting, Tissaia is outside the door, expression much too soft, as if she knows. And she most certainly does now, as puffy and red as Yennefer is, but her eyes are searching and sympathetic, and Yennefer averts her gaze as she cuts down the corridor towards her own room, a tight knot of white-hot embarrassment forming in her throat. Behind her, Rafa and Tissaia greet each other; she does not care to know the rest.

The next full moon comes too soon, and finds her once again dressed in a thin hospital gown in that awful cell. Tissaia's hands are busy with the items spread across the small metal tray. She can think only of blood and rage, corpses and the taste of metal. She doesn't look at Tissaia as tears sting at her eyes, refuses to make herself so vulnerable now if she can avoid it.

But Tissaia's hand suddenly finds her face, palm gently cupping her cheek, and when she guides Yennefer's face around Yen meets her eyes just briefly, chewing the inside of her cheek. She wants to rebel against the tenderness, wants to rage against the sympathy; she doesn't want pity, doesn't want to be coddled. She just wants things to be normal.

And yet, that treacherous, traitorous part of her remembers the comfort of the other woman's arms—longs for it, stretches out for it, leaves her breathless as she attempts to clear her mind of what is to come.

“Yennefer?”

Yennefer shakes herself back to the present, eyes flickering across Tissaia's face. 

“No safer place exists,” Tissaia says softly, firmly. It feels like a promise. Whether about this room, or this building, or these people, she does not know, but she supposes it doesn't really matter either.

And Yennefer does not know if she should trust this promise, but she has nothing else to lean on now. Nods her head sharply and swallows her emotions as Tissaia's lips curl into a mirthless shadow of a smile.

The bitter taste of copper lingers in her mouth when she wakes. She is in her room, her bed—the one that’s been assigned to her, anyway—the duvet tucked around her. Her limbs are stiff and sore; her skin burns. 

She blinks. Scuds sleep from her eyes. Gazes up at the ceiling in the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains, blinking until her surroundings come into better focus. The sun is full-bright outside, she knows. Turning her head to the side, she sees a sealed thermos and two bottles—one of water, one of what she knows to be a foul-tasting electrolyte concoction.

She groans as she shifts in the bedding, and the groan becomes a whimper as she levers herself upright on her elbows, her entire body protesting the movement. The air is cool, but not uncomfortably so, against her chest as the duvet falls away.

Yennefer twists sideways, lets her feet find the rug beside the bed. She can't quite stop a second groan of discomfort as she grips the edge of the mattress, bending forward slightly, wearily. She rests for a moment, tries to give herself some time to regain her equilibrium. Breathes, slowly, in and out.

When she feels balanced, she lifts a hand, and finds herself staring down at her own knuckles, her wrist. The wounds are open, but dry, close to fully healed; when she trails the fingertips of one hand alongside the wounds, there's a residue—a cream spread across the injuries, no doubt.

She does not have time to consider this, however, for unbidden comes the image of enormous black paws and fearsome claws. She flinches at the sudden image of the wolf, gnashing at its own feet—the feeling of feral rage, the ravenous gnawing in her stomach, the taste of blood in her mouth.

She lurches forward, grabbing at the bottle of water and sucking a mouthful into her mouth to rinse it of the copper tang. Forcing even breaths through her nose, she unseals the lid of the thermos, spitting into the cup and heaving out an unsteady breath.

The panic retreats; Yennefer sags.

After long minutes, she begins to catalogue injuries again. Slowly, cautiously. She runs her tongue along the inside of her mouth, is satisfied that she seems to have banished all immediate signs of blood. Nothing feels raw or tender, and nothing stings. She takes this to be a good sign, and turns her attention to her hands again. The wounds are plenty, but all the same—close to fully healed, and clean, though she knows without being told that there was blood before. She is aware of Tissaia's ministrations—that first full moon morning, she had awakened to the woman quietly pacing a trench through the floorboards and insisting that she drink a beverage with the worst texture she's ever been prevailed upon to put in her mouth. She's not looking forward to drinking the stuff now, though it significantly perked her up after that first transformation.

Her feet and ankles are in much the same condition as her hands and wrists, but while the skin on her ankles stretches uncomfortably when she stands, the various aches and pains in her muscles and joints and _bones_ are much more troubling as she makes her slow way to the bathroom, every fibre of her being revolting against even the smallest movements.

Teeth first; then shower, then food. She finds herself repeating this in her head like a mantra: teeth, shower, food. It keeps her focused as she turns the water on, cleans her teeth, examines herself again in the new light of the bathroom. Her hair is matted in places, and she does her best to ignore that it is most certainly blood. The wounds on her torso are all but scars now. She fingers the punctures above her heart, trails her hand down the diagonal swipe of scratches from her side, just below her breast, down to the middle of her abdomen, digging in fiercely over her diaphragm. She breathes sharply at the flash of memory—the huge paw used to pin her, to draw her back.

Teeth. Shower. Food.

She stumbles under the stream of too-hot water and nearly yelps, fumbling with the dial until the water is a more comfortable temperature before collapsing against the wall. The tile is cold against her skin; goose flesh crawls across her shoulders and breasts despite the hot water falling across most of her torso.

Shower. Food.

She ducks her head under the water and doesn't bother moving, just stands there until her hair feels wet through, eyes closed, breath slow and careful.

Shower.

Food.

She doesn't know when she winds up on the floor of the shower, face buried in her knees, shampoo washing down the sides of her face. She keeps her eyes shut and her lips parted, and stays there until long after the water runs clean against her face, until the bitter taste of soap no longer accompanies the trickle that flows down her cheeks and against her lips. For too long, probably; she does not know, comes back to herself only when she just barely hears her name called out over the sound of water running over her head.

She lifts her head, swallows. Her ears clear in time to hear Tissaia's voice.

“Are you alright?”

Yennefer grunts a reply, and for a moment, all is quiet.

Then: “I need a verbal response, Yennefer.” She manages to sound put-upon, but not really irritated.

Yennefer sighs, summoning her voice. “Yes.”

A blur of black and red is at the textured door of the shower, and the woman lingers for a moment before asking, “Is there anything I can do?”

“You can leave me alone,” Yennefer mutters without thinking, pressing her forehead against her knees with a sigh. 

“Excuse me?” Tissaia asks, and by her tone Yennefer can tell that she genuinely didn't hear what Yennefer said.

But she has no intentions of taking it back. She hates it here, hates that she hasn't so much as spoken to a friend in weeks, hates that she feels trapped, hates that all she can think about is monsters. And yeah, she's taking steps in the right direction, towards healing, with Rafa's help, but when she thinks about all of this, the last five months of her life, Tissaia is at the centre of it. She's as good a scapegoat as any. So Yennefer lifts her head again and says, a little louder: “I said you can leave me alone.”

There's a moment of hesitation before the figure outside the shower draws away a little. “Of course,” Tissaia says, and she doesn't quite snap the words, but they are clipped, restrained.

Yennefer grits her teeth, waiting the moment out. But Tissia says nothing else—just backs away again, further, until the bathroom door shuts behind her when she leaves.

After a span, Yennefer drags herself upright, jaw clenched, and shuts the water off. She stands there, dripping, hand splayed against the wall to balance herself, before finally pushing the door open and hugging a towel to her front and pressing it against her face. She barely has the energy to stand here, much less dress or go about any other business. So she steadies herself, moving carefully back through to the bedroom.

The bedding has been changed, she notes. She looks around, but there's no sign of Tissaia, or of the old duvet cover or pillowcases. Which, really, she wasn't planning on taking anything down to the laundry anyway, so good for Tissaia, she guesses. When she lowers herself cautiously into the bed, she sees that the cup from the thermos is gone as well. She rolls her eyes, breaks the seal, and finds that the soup inside is still too hot to eat as is, certainly too hot to gulp straight from the canister.

So she drinks the water instead, barely finishes it before curling onto her side, hair still dripping wet.

She sleeps like a stone, and wakes with something much more plush than the smooth, thin material of the pillowcase beneath her cheek. She groans, moving her arm so she can push herself upright, and a blanket slips against her ribs. There's a towel folded beneath her head, still damp from her hair. The sun must be well past its zenith.

Her hair is all but dry, so she wrenches the towel from beneath her and turns to find the thermos has been replaced with a bag of almonds and an apple, and the mostly-empty water bottle removed for a fresh one. The electrolyte bottle remains untouched. There's a note, which is naturally penned in the most perfect fucking script known to man: _Sandwich makings in the kitchen if you want something more substantial. - T._ Which, she's spent the last month pretty much free to roam the common areas of the house, has even met most of the other long-term residents (she thinks—it _is_ an awfully large house though, more Georgian mansion than anything), so she knows the kitchen is open to her. Really, the note probably means nobody made a proper supper so she can help herself to whatever.

But despite the gnawing pit in her stomach, she has no appetite. Instead, she finds herself irrationally angry about the note. About the blanket and the towel. The shower. It's not about privacy—everyone's been disgustingly careful to acknowledge that she's very much unclothed after her transformations and she's consented to having Geralt involved in the process inasmuch as she _doesn't give a single fuck_ —it's about being coddled. About needing help at all.

She's been on her own for a long time. The realisation that she could not do this on her own had been a bitter one.

She flings the water bottle across the room without thinking, shotguns the electrolyte drink, forcing herself not to gag along the way, and sleeps again.

* * *

When Yennefer finally emerges from her room the next morning, Tissaia marks her progress in the security feed, watching from her desk as the young woman makes her slow way to the elevator and out to the ground floor. Tissaia arranges her workspace, then moves to follow, arriving in the doorway of the large, communal kitchen just as Yennefer starts cracking eggs into a pan on the stovetop.

Yennefer seems to sense her presence, turns slowly to face her as she scrambles the eggs directly in the pan. 

“Can I help you?” 

Tissaia arches a brow at Yennefer's tone and crosses her arms in front of her, leaning against the doorframe. “Need anything?”

Yennefer's attention is already on the pan of eggs again. “Nope!” The false cheer in her voice is enough to set Tissaia's teeth on edge. 

“Stop by the infirmary when you're done, then,” Tissaia says, maintaining a carefully dispassionate tone.

Even in profile, Tissaia can see the roll of Yennefer's eyes. “No thanks.”

And Tissaia understands, she does: this establishment signifies an absolute 180-degree change from whatever Yennefer's life was before, and Tissaia _knows_ she's at the centre of it, but she can't help, can't make the transition any smoother, if Yennefer isn't willing to do her part. She hasn't mentioned the possibility of making Yennefer a prisoner here, or of transferring her to another facility; the last thing she wants is to compel Yennefer to cooperate through force or threats. She knows that if she were to do so, Yennefer's trust could never be earned or gained, and her own mind could never be still. Yennefer _must_ do this herself, must cooperate of her own volition. From that, she can heal. Anything else, and she'll be ruined.

So she pins Yennefer with a steady glare, and when the younger woman turns slowly to look at her askance, Tissaia sees a scowl curl across her face, sees the knit of her brows in the moment before she relents, shoulders sagging.

“ _Fine_.”

And that's the best Tissaia could really hope for. 

She watches as Yennefer scrapes her eggs out of the pan and into a waiting bowl, silent for just a moment. Then: “Basil will be waiting for you.”

She'd rather chart Yennefer's progress herself, but really, the exchange has left a bad taste in her mouth. The checkup is as routine as they come, and Basil will alert her if anything is out of the ordinary as he finds it. Otherwise, she can peruse Yennefer's charts herself from the comfort of her office.

Yennefer's leaning back against the counter now glaring balefully at her, and it feels like a dagger through her ribs, laced with bitterness and fire. It occurs to her quickly that these emotions are not exclusively her own; she steels herself, jaw clenched, until it fades away to a dull ache and a whisper of regret.

And that, that feels right.

She turns away. She has other work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to thinkbucket for giving this one a read-thru for me!


End file.
